


A Kiss for the Road, My Darling

by SleepySelfLoathing



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), I'm always a slut for forehead kisses, M/M, Mutual Pining, Some hurt and a bit of comfort, World War II, but he's not happy about it, casablanca - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 20:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20823254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySelfLoathing/pseuds/SleepySelfLoathing
Summary: Less than six months after the bombed out church, Aziraphale is being harassed by Nazis again. Only this time, when Crowley comes to help, Aziraphale is forced to confront what he realised that night when Crowley handed him his briefcase.More specifically, Aziraphale must confront the fact that he is in love.





	A Kiss for the Road, My Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Do you know what Good Omens, Casablanca, and The Sound of Music all have in common? 
> 
> They all show that killing Nazis and resisting fascism is romantic as hell.

For the second time in less than six months, Aziraphale finds himself at the end of a Nazi’s pistol.

He’s being pressed up against a wall roughly, with no consideration for the state of his jacket, and the two Nazi guards who caught him are saying something in… in French?

Casablanca is an odd city. There are too many dialects for Aziraphale to keep up with, even with his angelic grasp of language.

The guard with the gun is gesturing angrily, probably asking something about the refugees Aziraphale was with just half an hour ago. Probably. It’s not like Aziraphale would answer him even if he could understand the guard.

Aziraphale is well aware his stubbornness will get him shot any moment now.

(There’ll be no saving his jacket, which is a genuine shame, but oh well).

Aziraphale could try and miracle his way out of this situation, but the longer these guards are preoccupied with him, the better chance the sweet couple with the false passports will have of making it to their aeroplane ride. It’s a small sacrifice, and one Aziraphale is more than willing to make. Though it is a little bit funny that he’ll never learn the two dears’ real names, only the fake ones Aziraphale made up when forging their papers.

He hopes they’ll be happy.

The guard is shouting at him, raising a terrible racket, and Aziraphale realises that he hasn’t been paying attention to a single word this man has said to him. Based on context clues, the shouting likely means this interaction is coming to its conclusion.

This is confirmed by the pistol pressing against Aziraphale’s forehead, but he isn’t cowed. Instead, Aziraphale makes sure to look the guard in the face, to gaze into his eyes, to make him remember what he has done, not through miracles but with regular human guilt.

Aziraphale hopes the guard is still human enough for guilt.

But before the guard can pull the trigger, both guards freeze, bodies suspended in time and space. It’s unnatural, uncanny, and miraculous.

Aziraphale only has a few seconds to steel himself for what comes next.

“Well, well, well,” Crowley drawls, “isn’t this a familiar situation.”

Aziraphale removes himself from the frozen guard’s grip, stepping away from the wall while he straightens his clothing. He doesn’t turn to face Crowley as the demon leans, languid, by the alleyway to Aziraphale’s left.

“Are you trying to put my hard work to waste, angel? I appreciate you not picking a church to die in this time, but I don’t think this is a good habit to get into.”

Aziraphale knows he should look at Crowley and acknowledge him in some way. Aziraphale knows he’s being rude, being inconsiderate, and for all that Crowley won’t accept his thanks, Aziraphale ought to let him know Aziraphale_ is_ grateful for Crowley’s actions.

Only Aziraphale can’t do that now. Not without acknowledging feelings he’d rather ignore.

Crowley pushes himself off the archway, meanders around Aziraphale in a lazy, coiling circle, before stopping right in front of him. His sunglasses are impassable in the dim moonlight.

“What’s the matter? They didn’t do anything to you before I showed up, did they?”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, no, I’m just… I’m just a little tired.”

And he is. Sweet God above, Aziraphale is tired. The past months have been an unceasing stream of questions, followed by a series of revelations that are decidedly _not_ divine. All of it stems from that night in the church, from that moment with the books, from the second Aziraphale gazed at Crowley picking his way through the rubble, not looking back as Aziraphale realised –

Aziraphale is an angel, but he was blindsided by the realisation that he was in love.

Since then, he’s forced himself to look at his past actions, at nearly 6000 years of life on earth alongside his hereditary enemy. Aziraphale has taken every memory out if its box, dusted it off, and searched for causation, for the point where he definitively strayed from the proper path, stepped from the boundaries laid out by heaven, and fell for his demonic adversary.

It was distressing to realise that there was no turning point. Aziraphale doesn’t know when he started to love Crowley.

Equally distressing is the fact that Aziraphale doesn’t know how deep his feelings go.

Looking over the past, Aziraphale doesn’t know how much of himself has been defined in relation to Crowley. Does Aziraphale love fancy restaurants because he enjoys fine dining, or because he likes the way Crowley stares at him across the table? Is Hamlet his favourite Shakespeare play because he enjoys the soliloquies, or because Crowley made it popular for him? Does Aziraphale like trifle because he enjoys angel food cake, or because it’s one of the few things Crowley is willing to eat?

(Aziraphale knows, under the panic, that all of these statements are true. He’s just not sure which came first, can’t identify the root of this emotion).

To be frank, it’s been quite upsetting, and looking over these memories and examining himself without denial has yielded unexpected information. Information about himself, but also some very dangerous information about –

Aziraphale has gazed into his inner void, and the void granted him the revelation that Crowley loves Aziraphale too.

All the memories that make Aziraphale’s metaphorical heart clench, all the moments that he looks on with undesired adoration, Crowley is there, eyes hidden but emotions plain. It’s unnecessary to feel love to understand what Crowley’s fond smile _means_, and Aziraphale’s centuries of willing ignorance haven’t stopped Crowley from looking any less smitten, at least to Aziraphale’s eyes. How Aziraphale looks to Crowley, he daren’t guess. That way lies madness.

In short, recontextualizing nearly 6000 years of existence has been exhausting, _is _exhausting. It makes Aziraphale tired, but more than that, it makes him weary, and the only place he can rest is barred from him.

But Aziraphale really shouldn’t let Crowley know this, so he attempts to act more normal.

“Really Crowley, you didn’t need to help me like this. I had the situation under control.”

Crowley sputters. “What?”

Aziraphale tries to summon up some righteous indignation. “It was all part of my scheme, to… to reform these misled young men through guilt.”

Crowley’s expression is caught somewhere between gawking and scoffing. It’s an incredibly ungainly combination, and Aziraphale is embarrassed that he still finds it attractive. No matter, Crowley’s stupid, gorgeous face won’t stop Aziraphale from pressing on. “Really, if I’d been discorporated, it would have been a boon! Two more men aware of their crimes and… repenting, and all that…”

It’s difficult to continue justifying his actions when Crowley reaches over and twists one of the red arm bands on the frozen guard’s shoulder. Crowley gives Aziraphale a indeterminable look before snapping his fingers, vanishing the two guards, and Aziraphale really shouldn’t ask but –

“Where did you send them?”

“70 metres underwater somewhere out past the harbour. Not sure they know how to swim,” Crowley smirks.

Despite his earlier excuses, Aziraphale can’t stop himself from saying, “Good. It’s what they deserve.”

Crowley’s smirk is turning into a proper cheshire grin by this point, and it’s so charming that Aziraphale is forced look away, turning his eyes downward. This deflection only works for a moment before Crowley’s sleek, black shoes appear before Aziraphale’s line of sight.

“Aziraphale?”

It’s spoken softly, tugging at Aziraphale’s heart with a quiet insistence that aches. He can’t school his expression into something less damning before looking up.

Whatever Crowley sees on Aziraphale’s face makes his eyebrows raise, arching above his sunglasses. He steps in closer, his hands hovering around Aziraphale’s arms as he says, “Are you alright? Are you sure they didn’t hurt you? I’m all for deceit but don’t you dare lie about this.”

Crowley’s naked concern hurts worse than his scorn would, and Aziraphale doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know how to communicate what is really hurting him, what’s been hurting for months (for years, for centuries).

In the present, Aziraphale’s words have failed him. The betrayal stings.

Crowley is getting more agitated, reaching out in small, aborted gestures, and it makes Aziraphale’s heart twist. He really needs to respond, to stop acting so strange, to reassure Crowley, not just of Aziraphale’s physical health, but that he’s doing perfectly fine, my dear boy, not at all reeling from the realisation that he’s head over heels for the one person he’s supposed to loathe.

Aziraphale opens his mouth. Closes it. Crowley continues to stare, and the city looms around them in the dark shades of night.

Eventually, Aziraphale manages, “Can… can you keep a secret?”

“’Course I can. You should know this by now.”

Aziraphale does know this. He’s known for many, many years that Crowley wouldn’t betray him. Even so, Aziraphale can’t speak, terrified of what heaven might hear.

However, the night is dark, sight limited, so he can _act_ with only a measure of fear.

Aziraphale tugs at Crowley’s arm, takes his hand and presses it right above where Aziraphale’s heart should be, where his heart now is, his body suddenly providing an organ that wasn’t previously needed. Aziraphale forces a pulse, but he can’t make it steady, beating fast and excited under Crowley’s palm.

Looking over, Crowley isn’t breathing. His hand is light, and Aziraphale pushes it closer against his chest, looking at Crowley with imploring eyes. Aziraphale isn’t breathing anymore either, trying to be still while his heart pounds.

Aziraphale can’t speak, but he prays that Crowley listens regardless.

_Please, please hear me. Please understand._

Crowley is pulling closer, tethered by Aziraphale’s hand over his. Crowley isn’t trying to touch anything else, but sways closer with every heartbeat, close enough that any motion could bring their bodies into contact.

They stay there, standing in the dark together, and don’t breathe for fear of disrupting this fragile moment. 

…The night is so, so quiet. It’s silent in the same way the first nights were…

Maybe that’s why a sudden, nearby sound rattles Aziraphale so badly, making him all too aware of the intimate position they’re both in. The danger, mitigated by the shadows around them, is rushing back to the forefront of Aziraphale’s mind.

And he is reminded of what will happen if this goes any further.

Aziraphale is a principality, an angel made to protect, made to guard the things he cares for, and if anything were to happen to Crowley because of this… this moment of _weakness_, he couldn’t bear it. He should never have done this, never let Crowley touch him in the first place, so now Aziraphale needs to fix it, even if he doesn’t want to.

He needs to take a step back.

Aziraphale is willing to break both their hearts to protect Crowley, but what hurts most (based on Aziraphale’s newfound knowledge) is the fact that Crowley lets him. Crowley lets Aziraphale shatter his heart again and again, and always returns to him, always knows _why_ Aziraphale continues to say no and still doesn’t leave. Not for the first time, Aziraphale wishes he could return to before that bombed out church, before he was aware of what Crowley felt. Aziraphale would prefer ignorance over the agony of _knowing_. 

Aziraphale has always been a coward at heart.

(But in the face of both heaven and hell’s retribution, he is all too aware that his fear is justified).

So even though Aziraphale knows his actions hurt them both, he needs to have faith that what he’s doing is the right thing. After all, he’s an angel, he must be doing to the right thing.

Aziraphale tugs Crowley’s hand off his chest, unceremoniously dropping it between them, and tries to put on a stiff upper lip as he says, “I ought to be going. I’m expected in London.”

Crowley’s face is blank, mouth flat and motionless. Aziraphale can’t see anything past his sunglasses.

There is silence between them for a long, long moment, long enough to make Aziraphale begin to fidget with his jacket cuffs.

Eventually, Crowley takes a step back, putting some distance between them. Aziraphale is grateful, because now he doesn’t have to do it himself, and shows his gratitude with a smile, a beaming, aching thing that hopefully covers up the worst of him.

“Well! I won’t say it’s been a pleasant time, what with the war and the guards and all, but it’s good to know you’re doing well. I’m sure you’ll be quite busy!” Aziraphale says.

“Quite.” Crowley intones.

Aziraphale is only keeping his smile wide through strength of will, and he suddenly wants this interaction over with. He takes a deep breath and nods decisively.

“I guess this is farewell. Or, I suppose in the native French it would be au revoir?”

This is enough to make Crowley grin, just a little. It gives Aziraphale hope that they won’t be leaving on bad terms. This hope is immediately dashed as Crowley steps back into Aziraphale’s personal space, bringing his hands up to touch Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Angel.”

It’s a whisper. It’s soft. It’s for Aziraphale’s ears only.

(Not for heaven. Not for hell. For _Aziraphale–_)

“Let me do one quick blessing before you go. For the arrangement, yeah?” Crowley says, and this close Aziraphale can see the hint of golden eyes beyond the black glasses, snake eyes that draw in prey to envelop, to consume.

And Aziraphale is weak. He nods.

Crowley leans in, and Aziraphale almost panics, but Crowley isn’t aiming for his mouth (Aziraphale isn’t disappointed. He won’t let himself be). Instead, Crowley brings his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead, gentle, and so tender it makes Aziraphale want to cry. He’s already tearing up, water springing to his eyes held back only by a tiny angelic miracle.

Crowley doesn’t move away when he whispers, “May you have safe travels. May no harm come to you on your voyages.”

It’s not a small blessing. Aziraphale can feel the strands of the miracle wrapping around him, promising him safety whenever, wherever he’s traveling. It’s the kind of magic that doesn’t have an expiration date, the kind that Crowley could be destroyed for preforming.

Aziraphale needs to leave _now_.

(Crowley’s promised him safety, but Aziraphale can’t return the gesture, not without putting Crowley in more danger than magic can remedy).

Crowley is still holding Aziraphale close, still leaning into his space. That’s the first thing that must stop, so Aziraphale grips Crowley’s hands, removes them from his shoulders, and lightly pushes Crowley back. It’s a return to the only safety Aziraphale can offer, the safety of distance.

Aziraphale can’t meet Crowley’s eyes, not even with the barrier of sunglasses between them.

“Thank you, dear.” Aziraphale says.

“Anytime, angel.” Crowley responds.

(It’s telling that Crowley isn’t reprimanding Aziraphale for thanking him. It’s telling that Aziraphale doesn’t mention it in return).

Aziraphale turns to leave, manages to get ten or so steps away before he can’t resist looking back.

Crowley is still standing exactly where he was. He meets Aziraphale’s gaze and waves.

“A bientôt, mon ange.”

And then Crowley begins slinking down the street, off towards whatever his destination might be.

Aziraphale really ought to leave as well, he_ is_ the one who insisted on saying farewell in the first place. He ought to be getting back to London and making up some false report on his trip to Casablanca. He ought to focus on his job as an angel and stop being so concerned with the feelings of a demon.

Aziraphale has many things he ought to be doing.

Instead, he takes the long way to the docks. It doesn’t matter which boat he gets on anymore, not when he knows he’ll reach his destination regardless. 

It isn’t until hours later, leaning against the railing of a ship to look over the endless waters, that Aziraphale finally lets himself sob.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel that one of the strongest queer through-lines in Good Omens is Aziraphale's constant fear of his relationship with Crowley being discovered, especially his fear that him and Crowley could be physically hurt, or worse. 
> 
> As always, thanks to my dad for proofing, and thanks to all of you, for reading, and for reading my other fics. Your support is what motivates me to keep writing!
> 
> Comments keep me warm through the coming winter.


End file.
